My fingers were cold
as I hold the memories that run naked on the dusty strings of guitar,
and talk bluntly about savory, sanity, Shakespeare, and sex.
I mold a couple of my dreams
in patterns similar to roses and lilies, and paint them both bold and red.
The rented fragrance dies in devotion.
Those untouched scars that hide beneath the layer of my skin scream in joy and love.
I let a rebel rust.
I let pain rest.
It rained.
The giggle, zeal, and justice that cling to the skin of the last rose petal
are washed away, and the sky wept.
It rained.
And it rained.
Several handpicked stars wrapped carelessly in mist and misery,
bathed in rose water.
The scars are gone.
The smile is gone.
The aftermath of the rain burns the cowardice.
I weave a subtle, soft vision in orange hues.
I let it dye to yellowish greens.
Stardust and sanity consume the empty spaces.
I collide.
I rise.
I heal.